


Sara's Story

by Rocky_T



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocky_T/pseuds/Rocky_T
Summary: Episode coda to season 1 "Cold Lazarus"





	Sara's Story

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Jerie for the beta.
> 
> Originally written and posted in November 2004.

Whoever said the road to hell is paved with good intentions had Jack O'Neill in mind. 

Oh, he means well, never intends to hurt anyone else. In fact, he'll tell you (if you can pin him down), that his actions are meant to avoid causing pain; he prefers to keep it all to himself. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work that way. Just the opposite, actually.

People used to look at me in amazement if I said Jack wasn't the easiest person to get to know, that he keeps so much bottled up inside it's hard to know what he's really thinking or feeling. "You've got to be kidding," they'd say. Jack O'Neill, always the life of the party; it was near impossible to walk into a crowded room and not immediately notice the man holding court in center stage. Always the first with a joke, a clever quip, or some fantastic story. He made people look, always drew their interest. But not many realized that the extrovert, the clown, was all an act. That we were supposed to take the external persona at face value, and never look deeper.

It took me a while, that's for sure. 

I was a junior in high school in 1979 when I met Jack for the first time, at the Spring Social over at the old Armory building. He was a lot older than me, already a midshipman in the Air Force Academy. Showed up in his dress uniform, so tall and striking. As blue as sapphires he seemed. True blue. And to the wonder of everyone present--me, especially--he came right over to where I was standing and asked me to dance. In a dream, I took his hand and let him lead me to the center of the floor. 

I felt awkward and ungainly--I'd always envied the petite girls who seemed to fit so smoothly into their taller escorts' arms--and avoided looking at him as he drew me to him. After a few seconds, however, something made me look up. He gave me a quizzical glance, then grinned. 

"Relax, I'm going to try my hardest not to step on your feet."

I wasn't sure I'd hear him correctly. "Excuse me?"

"You look worried, so I just thought I'd reassure you. I may not be the world's best dancer, but some things I can guarantee."

"That's not what I was--" I could feel my cheeks burning. "You're a very good dancer."

"So are you."

"Really?" I said shyly.

"Hey, can I tell you how grateful I am you weren't already on the dance floor with some other guy? It saves me the trouble of having to cut in."

I was pleased, if more than a bit disbelieving. He was still smiling, however, and I found myself responding in kind.

"That's better," he said softly. "You have a beautiful smile."

My fingers brushed the short hairs at the back of his neck. The weight of his hand on the small of my back felt good. I looked into his warm brown eyes and liked what I saw.

All too soon, that dance was over but instead of stepping away, Jack remained by my side for the next one. As well as the one after that. As much as I was enjoying myself, I felt compelled to speak up.

"You don't have to do this."

"Don't see anyone forcing me, do you?" he laughed. He pulled me closer and sighed softly into my shoulder. "Trust me, Sara, there's no one else I'd rather be with right now."

After a few more dances, followed by a glass of punch, I was beginning to believe he wasn't just being polite.

Jack never left my side for the rest of the evening, and called me first thing the next morning. We ended up spending every possible moment together for the rest of his leave.

My dad had a few reservations, mostly about the age difference between us.. But otherwise he approved of Jack. "A fine, upstanding young man," he'd called him after the two of them had had a little talk about Jack's 'intentions.' 

"I can't believe you!" I said, more than a little embarrassed at how old-fashioned my dad was. I turned away from the sink, the dishes temporarily forgotten. "You actually asked him that?"

"Why not?" Dad was unruffled. "It's a father's prerogative, honey." He carefully folded his paper and put it on the kitchen table, then picked up a towel and joined me at the sink. "I just want my little girl to be happy." He immediately corrected himself. "You're not a little girl anymore, Sara, but a grown woman--old enough to make your own choices."

I squeezed his arm. "So you approve of Jack?" I said, deliberately keeping my voice casual.

Dad nodded. "He'll go far in life."

Though Dad didn't say it in so many words, I knew Jack's military background was also a plus. Dad had fought in WWII, in the Pacific. He'd even considered making a career of it, till he was wounded right before VE day and shipped home. And there was my brother Jimmy, who'd joined the Marines in '68 and served in Vietnam. His posthumous Silver Star was prominently displayed on the mantel, right next to my parents' wedding picture.

Everyone loved Jack. How could they not? I was literally swept off my feet, dazzled by his charm. That twinkle in his eye, that 'aw shucks' grin. He'd grown up in another small town in the eastern end of the state--he'd been visiting his grandparents that first time--but found plenty of excuses over the ensuing months to keep coming back to Springfield. And when he wasn't around, there were cards and letters, the occasional phone call. Full of humorous stories about things that happened to his fellow cadets, sports news, tales of fishing and camping trips he'd been on or planned to take one day. He wasn't much for talking about personal stuff--like his feelings--but when I looked in his eyes there was no doubt in my mind how right this was, how good we were together.

We were married the following June, right after our respective graduations and just two weeks before my 19th birthday. I quickly learned what it meant to be a military wife; we moved around a lot over the next few years. Pensacola first, then in rapid succession Mobile, Fort Dix, and Puget Sound. Then Jack was sent overseas, stationed in West Germany. Instead of joining him right away, however, I went back home to Minnesota. 

"I'm sorry, Jack," I said, somewhat hesitantly as I watched him pack. "I know this isn't exactly what we'd planned--"

"It's all right."

"But you know that Dad's been getting on in years--he's been alone ever since Mom died in '72--"

"--and he's just had a major heart attack," Jack finished. "You can't leave him. I understand."

"If only you weren't shipping out so soon!" I said, running my hand through my hair in frustration.

Jack never looked up from the half-full duffel bag on the bed. "But I am, Sara. My orders are to report to the base in three days." He took the pile of clean tees from me, then pulled me into his arms. "Shh, I know how you feel. You're upset and worried about your father, which is perfectly understandable. You need to be here for him."

"And you're my husband, and I should--"

"It's all right," he said again, and brushed his hand over my eyes, wiping away the tears. "I'm going to miss you like crazy, you know that. But once things settle down, you'll be on your way. In the meantime, you do what you have to do."

I was grateful for his understanding, but it wasn't that surprising. Of course Jack understood all about duty and sacrifice.

As soon as Dad was back on his feet, I flew to Wiesbaden. Jack was glad I was there--we'd been apart for nearly three months, the longest separation since we'd gotten married--but it soon become apparent I'd almost seen more of him when we were living on different continents. His unit was always being sent out on missions, it seemed. I don't know the details: something covert, I suspected. I was familiar with the military mindset of 'need to know', and didn't expect Jack to tell me much. Nor did I really care. On the contrary, when he _was_ around, both of us had a lot more on our minds than talking. 

After one such homecoming, I snuggled deeper under the big down quilt, my head comfortably pillowed against Jack's chest. "When do you have to go?"

Jack was quiet for so long I wondered if he'd fallen asleep. I lifted myself on one elbow and leaned over him. "Jack?"

"Not for another 48 hours." He stretched and then rolled over so he was facing me.

Just two more days. I forced a smile. "Are you planning on spending the entire time in bed?"

"Got a better suggestion?" he said with a suggestive look.

I laughed, and punched his arm. "You know what I mean. All you've done has been sleep--"

"Not just sleep--"

"--and other related activities. Don't you want to go off base with me, maybe get something to eat, see the sights?" I sat up, trying to remember where I'd put the flyer that had come earlier in the week. "There's supposed to be a cultural festival this weekend, sounds like it should be fun." 

"I see plenty when I'm on duty." I froze at his sharp tone. He sat up as well and patted the mattress next to him. "Come here." He put his arm around me and exhaled heavily. "Right now, I've got everything I need right here."

Those brief reunions, they made everything worthwhile: the loneliness, the language difficulties, the isolation from friends and family back home. The other wives were very kind, a terrific support system. And as always, being there for Jack--when he was back at the base--superseded everything else. But every now and then I'd look around and wonder about things. Like when we'd start a family, get settled in our own home. I was looking forward to going back to the USA. Even though I'd gotten used to being overseas--we ended up spending nearly five years there--it still would never be home to me.

I finally got my wish, but not quite in the way I'd wanted. Every military wife is aware of the possibility, of course. You just don't think it's ever going to happen to you. But one time--it was in '85--Jack failed to come back from a mission. As I learned later--much later--he'd parachuted down somewhere on the Iran-Iraq border, behind enemy lines. It took him nine days to make it into 'friendly' territory. I thought then it was the worst thing I could ever go through--the worry, the uncertainty, the fear I'd never see him again. Unfortunately, I would later discover just how much worse things could get.

In early March of 1988, I had just found out I was pregnant. I was ecstatic, couldn't wait to tell Jack. He was off on a mission, of course, but they were due back at the end of the week. 

That Friday night I called my father at our regularly scheduled time, eager to share my news. He was happy, but had a question of his own. "When are you going to come back home, Sara? It's been so long."

"I was just back at Christmas," I said with a laugh. "That was only a few months ago. Even the Air Force doesn't rack up that many frequent flyer miles."

"I don't mean to visit," he said, his voice quietly insistent. "I mean to stay."

I don't remember what I answered, but after I hung up I was in a somber mood. _Would_ we be back in the States, home for good, before the baby was born? I realized once again it wasn't up to me, or even Jack. Every aspect of our lives was decided for us by Uncle Sam.

I was glad when the phone rang again. It was Donna Crawford, Frank's wife. We weren't especially close friends, but as Frank was the head of Jack's unit, we'd ended up socializing together quite a bit.

"Thank Heavens you're home!" Donna said, a bit breathlessly. "I'm in a bit of fix--I clean forgot to buy more beer--it's not like the kids or I drink the stuff!--and now the stores are all closed. I was wondering if you can spare a few bottles."

"No problem," I answered. "Send over Frank Junior--"

"You're a real lifesaver!" Donna said. "You know how these men are about their beer. Frank was in a real temper when he opened the fridge just now and found it empty. I don't know how they manage to go without for so many days while they're off on a mission, but maybe that's why they can't wait an extra minute once they've walked through the front door--"

"Frank is home already?" I cut in.

"Of course he is. I'd hardly need the beer otherwise…" Donna's voice trailed off. "You mean Jack isn't?"

"No, he's not."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be there real soon," Donna said, somewhat flustered. I don't know if she said anything further. Through the curtains, I saw the military car pull up outside the house and two officers get out and start up our front walk. 

Jack was missing.

There followed four months of hell, not knowing if he was alive or dead. Frank Crawford couldn't or wouldn't tell me much more than I already heard, how Jack had fallen behind enemy lines. He was officially listed as 'Missing, presumed killed', later upgraded to 'presumed captured' when reports circulated of a convoy of prisoners being transported to an undisclosed location near Basra, one of whom roughly matched Jack's description. Finally, we received confirmation from the Red Cross that he was in a POW camp. Not that they were allowed much access to the camps, Geneva Conventions or no. Jack had been wounded, everyone knew how horrible conditions were…I couldn't eat or sleep, spent every minute I wasn't at the CO's office pleading for information just pacing the floor. 

Most of that time, now that I look back on it, was like a big blur. On top of all my worries, I was feeling lousy from the pregnancy. The morning sickness lasted all day, and continued long after it should have. I was weak and dizzy as well. The base doctor warned me if I didn't take better care of myself I could lose the baby. That terrified me even more. I forced myself to go on, be strong for Jack's sake and for the sake of our child. It's what he would have wanted. What he _did_ want--inadvertently slipping into thinking of him in past tense scared me even more. It wasn't easy, but I tried not to lose faith.

But he did eventually come back, spared to live and fight another day. Just as I'd hoped and prayed, he walked in the front door, outwardly unchanged except for a slight limp, and took me in his arms. 

I couldn't move at first, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except stare at first. "It's you," I finally whispered. "It's really you." 

"Were you expecting someone else?" His grin was meant to chase away my fears, all the days and nights of worry gone, just like that. I managed a sickly answering smile, then burst into tears.

Jack's face changed swiftly. "I'm here, Sara." His arms tightened around me. "It's OK, I'm really here."

"I thought you were--"

"Shh. I'm here, I'm alive, and I damn well intended to stay that way all along. There was never any doubt I was coming back to you." He paused, his eyes intent on mine. "I made it through because of you, Sara. You were all I could think of, getting home and seeing you again." 

That moment of unguarded honesty--so rare for Jack--completely undid my resolution to remain strong. I sobbed hysterically, clutching him so hard it must have hurt. But he didn't object, didn't say anything further, just held me until the shaking stopped.

When he finally released me, he looked down at me questioningly for a moment, then tentatively touched my belly. "Is this what I think?" 

I took a last shuddering breath and nodded. What with all the emotional upheaval, I'd almost forgotten. "It's true. You're going to be a father." His face lit up. 

Thus began the happiest time of our marriage. Jack was transferred back to the US, Colorado Springs. At Jack's urging, we bought a little house, off base. 

I'd had it with army housing, but still had some misgivings. "Are you sure we can afford this? After all, I'm not going to be working right away--"

Jack waved aside my fears. "Are you forgetting my promotion? Higher rank, higher pay. We'll be just fine. Besides, now that we're starting a family, we need more room."

I soon saw what he meant--he was always bringing home things for the baby. Sports equipment, like a catcher's mitt. A fishing pole. A model airplane. A telescope. He was so full of plans and enthusiasm.

Jack was still on active duty, of course. There were still occasional absences, but he was trying to be home more. We spent so many evenings up on the roof, with the telescope, looking at the stars. I remember shivering in the frosty air, and Jack would wrap an arm around me to keep me warm, while expounding on the various constellations. 

"See that?"

"What?"

"That dot on the right."

"The big orange one?"

"No, the little blue-white one next to it. See it?"

"I think so," I said doubtfully. "Is that a planet?"

"No, that's a star."

"What's the difference?" Hastily, I added, "I mean, I know the difference between a star and a planet. But how can you tell them apart when you're looking through a telescope?"

Jack promptly launched into a detailed explanation. I nodded at appropriate intervals, but the words themselves were meaningless to me. What was important was seeing the way Jack's face lit up as he spoke, hearing the enthusiasm in his voice.

"So you see," Jack said, finishing up a lecture whose thread I'd lost long ago, "we're really not seeing that star as it is now--but rather as it was 56 years ago."

"What? How can that be?"

"Well, that star is 56 light years away. Which means it took 56 years for its light to reach us."

I nodded. "And the light it's producing _right now_ \--"

"Won't be visible to us for another 56 years. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good." He looked very pleased with himself.

"You know what?" I said with a laugh. "You should have joined NASA instead of the Air Force."

Our son was born in November, right before Thanksgiving. The following year, my dad sold his farm and got a place in town nearby. He said he wanted to see his grandson grow up. I was completely in favor--what else was there for him back there. As Dad always said, it was about family, that family was the most important thing in the world. Jack didn't seem as enthusiastic as I'd expected, but didn't say anything. He remained quiet, even when I pressed him.

The years went by so fast. It seemed no sooner than Charlie had learned to walk that he was riding a bike. "Way to go, son!" Jack yelled in triumph the day the training wheels came off and Charlie made it all of ten feet down the driveway before toppling over. Or the time he hit his first home run--right through the upstairs bedroom window of the neighbors.

Then came that fateful day that Charlie died. Even now, it only comes back to me in nightmarish snatches--overlaid with a sickening feeling of 'this can't be happening.' 

"We've got to get him to a doctor!"

"I'll call 911--"

"No, it'll be quicker to drive ourselves instead of waiting for an ambulance," Jack insisted. He grabbed the afghan off the couch, wrapping our little boy in it and dashed out to his Jeep. I paused only long enough to snatch up my keys and purse and followed.

I held Charlie's unconscious form in my lap, praying the bleeding would stop, that he'd open his eyes. The hospital personnel immediately took my little boy, my precious angel, into a room, drawing a curtain, blocking our view.

"Sorry, ma'am, you can't go in." 

Jack hushed my protests. "Let them do their job." 

The doctor came out only a short time later. I knew right away from the look on his face what he was about to tell us.

Jack went rigid and silent.

I remember how everything seemed to go so quiet suddenly. The doctor continued speaking, but I couldn't hear him. All I was conscious of was the pain. As I felt its crushing weight descend, I knew I'd never be free of it, not if I lived to be a hundred. 

The day of the funeral was gray and overcast, but the rain held off till just after sunset. I hadn't expected there to be so many people, but quite a crowd turned out that day--friends and neighbors, Jack's co-workers. Charlie's teacher was there, along with his classmates. I remember thinking how inappropriate it was to see young children in a cemetery, and then the feeling of loss hit me all over again. Jack was in full dress uniform. He stood ram rod straight, staring ahead of him and never glancing off to either side. I clutched his hand, but he didn't even seem aware I was there.

Only my father wept openly. I stood there, listening to the minister's voice, and wondered why it did not rain.

At last the prayers were over. The mourners stepped back, respectfully, as the casket was lowered into the ground. The clods of dirt hitting the casket sounded unnaturally loud. Jack jerked involuntarily at each thud. But he was silent, as was I.

"It's not right for a parent to bury a child," Dad said later over the casserole brought over by a neighbor, at a meal none of us were able to choke down. I knew he was thinking not just of Charlie but also of Jimmy. 

I touched his arm mutely, and looked around the room for Jack. He was nowhere to be found. Hours later I heard his tread on the attic stairs--he must have been gazing at the stars. I lay in bed, silently waiting. He paused outside the bedroom door but did not come in.

In all my life, I've never known such despair, never been at such a loss, wondering how to go on. I was a mother with no child. I just could not comprehend how the laughing, vibrant boy who'd just handed me his school pictures and run inside the house for an afternoon snack could have been taken from us so quickly. I couldn't make sense of it--there was no room in my mind for anything else, just this feeling of bewilderment and awful, aching emptiness. Well-meaning but ignorant people kept telling me, "Time heals all wounds." But no one could tell me how to go on in the meantime.

Jack was not home much. On the occasions when he was, I could feel him pulling away from me, deliberately ignoring any overtures on my part. All I wanted to do was sob in his arms, commiserate with him, share this loss together. It was tearing me up inside, I could only guess how he was suffering. And yes, I selfishly wanted him to comfort me, tell me we would get through this somehow. I _needed_ him. But he grew more distant with each passing day, barely speaking unless spoken to. The two of us felt like strangers in our own home. 

A few weeks after the accident, I took a couple of empty boxes to Charlie's room, intending to pack up his things. A friend of mine who'd lost a little girl to SIDS years before had said I couldn't expect to heal if I kept an active reminder of his death, like a festering wound. But as I looked around the room, at the model airplanes, at the sports trophies, at all the possessions Charlie had loved and been so proud of, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It felt too much like erasing his memory. Instead, I carefully made the bed--picking up the pajamas and inhaling their scent, which brought a rush of tears to my eyes--and straightened the books, dusting the bureau top and the bookshelves, then closed the door quietly behind me. 

My father told me to give it time, if it helped me to keep his things around, then that was fine. He didn't bat an eye when I confessed I'd sometimes go and sit on the bed and talk to my son, never questioned why Charlie's bike still leaned against the fence by the driveway. 

Jack never entered Charlie's room. After a few months of trying to cope alone, I went for grief counseling, 

"The appointment is at 5 o'clock, " I said, somewhat hesitantly. "Would you like me to pick you up, or do you want to meet there?" 

"I'm not going," Jack said.

"I think it would be a good idea--"

"I said, I'm not going!" Jack's brief flare of temper died. "Sorry. If you feel the need for it, Sara, then you go ahead."

I stepped in front of him, so he couldn't look away. "What about you?"

His lips tightened. "I don't need counseling. I'm fine." He walked out of the room before I could say anything else. 

Even after Jack resigned from the Air Force--in a rush of guilt, I believe, because it was his gun that Charlie shot himself with--his absences continued. In fact, they became more frequent. I don't know where he went or what he did. When he was around, he spent most of his time on the roof, endlessly looking up at the stars.

In retrospect, it's not surprising that our marriage ended, not with a bang, but not even with a whimper. I think I knew it was over when Jack came back from some top secret mission the Air Force had called him in for. 

I wasn't actually there when he got home--I'd gone to Las Vegas for a cousin's wedding that weekend. It was a last minute impulse, as Gillian and I had never been especially close, but it seemed like a good idea to get away for a little. Much better than sitting alone in an empty house. I didn't know when Jack would be back--neither he nor the officers sent to fetch him had been particularly forthcoming about the details.

I had no idea he was home until I saw his jacket flung carelessly over the couch in the living room. I went into the kitchen, and then the den.

Jack was drinking a beer and watching a hockey game. He didn't look up.

"Hi," I said.

He nodded briefly, then transferred his attention back to the TV. I waited.

Things had been none too warm between us for the past year, but this was like greeting a stranger. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer.

"How long have you been back?" I asked.

"Couple of days," he muttered vaguely, as he took another swig from his beer. 

"I must have just missed you." He didn't take advantage of the opening I'd given him, so I told him about the wedding. He didn't seem very interested--not in my trip, or in anything concerning me.

I tried another tack. "So, are you on active duty again?"

"No."

"Was the mission a success?"

"More or less."

I lost it then and there. With a fury that surprised me, I snapped off the TV, then grabbed the remote control and threw it across the room.

He looked up in surprise. At least I'd managed to crack that expressionless facade of his. "What'd you do that for?" 

"Do you think you could do me the courtesy of looking at me while we're talking?" 

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Damn it, Jack, will you stop it! You know what I mean!"

He picked up his empty bottle and started out of the room.

"Jack, we need to talk about what's happening to us," I called after him. "Please, can't you just--"

But if Jack heard me, he gave no indication. I had no idea what was going on inside him, what he was thinking or feeling--about anything. He maintained that damn stoic act till the end. 

Finally, he just moved out altogether. I came back from the grocery store one day, saw a pile of boxes by the door. At first I thought Jack had packed up Charlie's clothes and toys, to give them to Goodwill, and I was furious that he could do this without telling me. Then I tugged one box open and realized it was Jack's own stuff--books, papers, his ancient LP collection. 

I straightened up in a hurry when I heard him come up behind me. He had a duffel bag in one hand, an old rod and reel in the other.

"Were you planning on telling me, or was I just supposed to come home and find you'd vanished?" I asked, not bothering to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.

He didn't even blink. "I'm sorry, Sara. But it isn't working, hasn't been working between us for a long time."

"That's because you won't talk to me! Tell me what we can do to fix this, to make things right between us!" 

He just looked at me for a long moment. "There's nothing either of us can do. It can never be right again." He repeated, "I'm sorry."

I had no answer for that. I just stood and watched him put the last load in his truck and drive away.

I didn't cry--not then. Somehow, I managed to pick up the pieces and move on. It wasn't easy. There were times I honestly didn't know what was worse, losing Charlie or losing Jack. Occasionally, I raged at him (in absentia) for giving up, for not being there for me or letting me be there for him. 

Dad was my rock during this time, my anchor. I don't know how I would have made it without him. He'd listen to me rant, then tell me it wasn't my fault, any of it. Not Charlie's death, or Jack's leaving. I knew he was right, but sometimes--especially in the middle of the night--I'd wonder if I could have done things differently, if I could have changed what had happened. And deep down, there was a part of me, the part that still loved Jack, in mourning not just for our son, but for _us_ , for everything we'd shared.

Time went by. I never heard directly from Jack, but through mutual friends found out he eventually returned to the Air Force, active duty. Our only communication was through lawyers. Eventually, our divorce decree was final. Jack didn't contest anything; he (or rather his lawyer, as he was allegedly out of town whenever a hearing was scheduled), acquiesced to all my demands when it came to dividing our joint property. I got the house. Jack, who'd eventually gotten a place of his own, reportedly said he took all the possessions he wanted when he'd left. 

Even after it was all over, though, I still wore my wedding ring, for some reason couldn't bring myself to take it off. My father, who'd been so sympathetic and understanding with me after Charlie died, had a different reaction this time. 

"You need to move on with your life, honey," Dad said. "Meet someone new."

I sighed. We'd had this conversation many times before. "I'm not ready yet."

"When will you be?" he persisted. "I don't see you making any effort." He picked up my left hand. The plain gold band on the third finger twinkled in the light. "For starters, you might try taking this off. It's a real handicap in attracting someone new."

"Some men might consider it a challenge," I said flippantly.

"Sara--"

"I'm sorry, Dad." And I was. He was genuinely concerned for me, couldn't stand to see me so alone. He didn't say it in so many words, but he was hoping that this time I'd find someone 'worthy', or at least a man who would be able to make me happy. 

I knew Dad was right, but whenever he brought up the subject I always answered I wasn't ready. 

I guess I was ashamed to admit--even to myself--that I still loved Jack, still thought that perhaps one day he'd change his mind, come back. I knew it wasn't realistic to cling to this hope. I'd been married to Jack for 16 years, and knew him too well to expect such a dramatic turnaround. It wasn't his style. With a pang, I'd think about his inexplicable withdrawal from me, from our marriage, and wonder if I'd ever really known him at all.

And then one day, he showed up at the house out of the blue. Just like that, as if he still had the right. He didn't flinch when I challenged him. His face was as closed as ever, but there was something tentative about his manner, a hesitation I hadn't seen before. Jack was never one for treading cautiously, but always went ahead and did something, even if it turned out to be wrong later on. I guessed it was that same impulsiveness that had brought him here this Saturday afternoon.

I slammed the car hood down and scrubbed my hands. I was proud I was able to look him right in the eye as I asked, "What do you want?" I didn't bother to hide the fact I was angry at him for thinking he could waltz right in like nothing had happened. I steeled myself for his answer.

"I need Charlie." Three simple words, but full of pain.

This time I was the one who ran away.

Thank God Dad was there that afternoon. He sized up the situation in an instant. "Don't worry, Sara," he said, his mouth drawn into a tight line. "I'll deal with Jack. You just go in the house." 

I was too grateful to be ashamed of my cowardice. I took a long shower, trying to regain my composure. After all this time, Jack still knew how to push my buttons.

When I was feeling a little better--more able to cope, at any rate--I came downstairs. Dad was in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee. Before I could even ask, he told me Jack was still there, in Charlie's room.

That caught my attention. As far as I knew, Jack hadn't set foot in there, since the day of the accident. My curiosity got the better of me and I went upstairs. I hesitated in the hall outside; through the partially open door, I could see him hunched over on Charlie's bed, clutching some of Charlie's clothes to his chest, rocking back and forth. I swallowed and stepped away silently. 

Later, when he passed by the living room on his way to the door, I called out to him. 

"Jack?"

He came and sat down beside me, his grief showing openly in his eyes. 

I asked him again, more gently this time. "Why are you here?" 

Jack has never been one for playing games, for beating around the bush. So I was honest with him now, as much as I could be. He still didn't have much to say, but he was different, somehow. More direct, more willing to be open with me. But it wasn't easy. 

As we talked, I could see how uncomfortable he was, all the little tell-tale signs like shuffling his feet as if he didn't know what to do with them, the way he spoke so slowly, so softly, the odd hesitation before he'd answer. I could feel myself responding to him, and it scared me. Lord knows, the last thing I wanted was to put myself in a situation where he could hurt me again. Then again, I didn't know if I'd ever get another opportunity like this again, with Jack being willing to at least meet me halfway, to finally get some answers to the questions that had been plaguing me for so long. 

We went to the park, away from my father's well-meaning but overprotective eye. We sat on a low stone wall, and for a long moment, I closed my eyes, remembering how we used to take Charlie here as a toddler and later a sturdy little boy, all the family picnics we'd shared. 

Jack was remembering, too. 

"He really loved that game, didn't he?" Jack said in that same quiet voice. I realized I hadn't heard him speak much above a whisper the entire afternoon. So different from the old days; he seemed flat, somehow, not like himself. As if all the vitality had drained away.

"You mean baseball?" Yes, some of the happiest memories of our time as a family was of Jack playing catch with Charlie in the yard. I could just close my eyes and imagine I heard the sounds of the ball slapping the mitt. And later, the crack of the bat.

The crack of the gunshot.

I'd replayed those images so many times, they were inextricably linked in my mind. And never lost the power to hurt.

I finally got up the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing me for months. "Why did you leave?"

"I thought you were angry."

I was shocked. "You thought I blamed you for Charlie's death?" Nothing could be farther from the truth. "Yes, I was angry you 'abandoned' me, we should have been able to comfort each other, Jack. But you were never there."

What I didn't say was that I was also angry that he blamed himself to such an extent that there was no room for anyone or anything else. Typical Jack. Yes, it was his gun, but I should have made sure it was locked up, that Charlie couldn't get to it, that he knew to be responsible around firearms. Above all, I knew that wallowing in self-pity or guilt wasn't going to help. If Jack had only faced this at the time, instead of trying to shut himself away. But he didn't, and for all his supposedly being forthcoming now, he was still saying things that made no sense in the context of our conversation.

I started to say a very little of this when he suddenly doubled over in pain. I thought I saw strange flashes of light over his body, like he was being electrocuted. It was over so quickly I couldn't be sure I really did see something. And it was lost in the realization that he was suffering, that there was something very wrong with him. A sudden horrible thought came to me--Jack was seriously ill, and had come to make his final peace before he died.

Déjà vu all over again. The same frantic ride to the hospital--only this time I called 911--cradling Jack's head against me. This time it was Jack lying on the examination table, motionless, while we waited for someone to see him. 

As I watched, he opened his eyes, and again mentioned Charlie. 

Fighting back the pain, I answered, "Yes, this is where he died," remembering once more how I never saw him again. 

I wasn't sure anymore how I felt about Jack, but there was no denying that he was still very important to me. Not to mention there was still too much unfinished business between us. 

All of a sudden, he had another fit or seizure or whatever it was. I reached out to him, and was hit with a jolt of energy. I stared uncomprehendingly at the burn on my hand, scarcely aware of the pain. Jack was writhing on the floor, in the throes of still more flashes of energy. A nurse grabbed my arm and forced me from the room. 

In the hallway, while my hand was being bandaged, I tried and failed to make sense of what was going on. All hell was breaking loose around me, people scurrying around, yelling, evacuating the area. I should have turned and run, but I couldn't leave him. Not until--In a daze, I heard someone say a special unit, a SWAT team or something, was being called in to deal with the situation. I saw four figures clad in combat fatigues coming down the hall. My knees threatened to give way when I saw the man in the lead 

It was Jack.

He immediately came over to me, asking how I was, if I was hurt. I couldn't even frame a reply. How could Jack be standing next to me? I'd left him lying in an exam room, those flashes of energy--

"Jack--"

He beckoned to a member of his team. "Look after her," he said, and strode purposefully down the hall. That more than anything, convinced me this was the 'real' Jack. Then who had come to me that afternoon? Still confused, I allowed myself to be led outside the building.

Night had fallen. I waited with the other evacuees, in the 'safe perimeter' the police had established, my mind trying to make sense of what had happened. Those flashes of energy, the talk of the 'stargate'--I've always been a rational person, but somehow I appeared to have been caught up in some weird type of UFO scenario.

The all clear signal sounded. Almost immediately afterward, Jack emerged from the building. With him was, no, it couldn't be--

Charlie.

I stared, more shocked than by anything else that had happened on this incredible day. For one wild moment, I thought the past few years had just been a bad dream, that my son had somehow been miraculously restored to me. Then the realization sank in, with the abruptness of an icy shower. This wasn't Charlie, anymore than the thing in there earlier had been Jack. But he looked so much like my son--same tousled brown hair, same eyes gazing up at her with so much love--I could feel the tears streaming from my own eyes, fought for control as my heart wrenched inside me. _This isn't Charlie. Charlie is dead._

Dimly, I realized what Jack--and this entity, whatever it was--was trying to accomplish. They were giving me the chance to say goodbye. 'Charlie' reached out to me--as tentative as 'Jack' had been earlier--but I didn't dare do more than touch his hand. What I really wanted was to snatch him in my arms, hold him close and never let him go. But this wasn't Charlie.

There was an air of urgency all around, people were calling out in the distance. "The helicopter will be here in one minute, we've got to get him out of here now!" But all that faded into no more than background noise as Jack--the real one, the man I'd loved yet never really understood and so had ultimately lost--held me, one last time. 

Closure. Not just for Charlie, but for Jack as well. The other Jack had wanted my forgiveness, to have the opportunity to at long last explain --and I didn't doubt that that what he'd told me this afternoon was the truth--but it was still over. 

"We were really great together, weren't we?" I whispered. 

"The best," Jack said quietly, and then he let me go. 

The crisis over, the crowd rapidly melted away. But I stood there in the parking lot, my old wedding band clutched in my fist, until the helicopter was no more than a pinprick of light which vanished in the gloom.


End file.
